


Relentless Into the Void

by wilhuffnpuff



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Maximilian is basically Perfect, Piett and Veers are BFFs, Piett has Issues, Piett has Sabacc face, Piett hates the officer's lounge, Piett kind of hates a lot of things, love at first sight trope ( kind of ), no bounty hunters allowed, prickly on the outside but secretly kind of nice on the inside trope, somewhat awkwardly written sex scene incoming later ( probably ), vader has issues, with light plot elements, you have been duly warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28871892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilhuffnpuff/pseuds/wilhuffnpuff
Summary: There are things that even Lord Vader is afraid of.
Relationships: Firmus Piett/Darth Vader
Comments: 40
Kudos: 84





	1. Chapter 1

The dreadnought _Executor_ moves through the dead of space, an arrowhead triumphantly breaching through scattered clusters of interstellar clouds.A crew of over three hundred thousand men tend to her operations, chained MSE-6 droids scuttle through her hallowed halls, pilots and gunners and naval troopers mingle together in the mess halls.Together they sleep within the deep embrace of her Titanium-reinforced hull as she sings turbolaser lullabies into the vacuum, ion engines burning blue and bright. 

A single man with hollow eyes and sharp countenance stands alone at the bridge tower viewport, contemplating an uncertain future.Captive beneath a shroud of dread, he knows that he must carry on.As if impending death isn’t breathing down his spine, caressing the nape of his neck.As if he hasn’t recently felt compelled to identify his next of kin and make doubly sure that his affairs are in order.  
  
Creaking leather as he primly folds his gloved hands together, contemplating the grim scenario.Replaying the moment in his head ceaselessly.Feeling the stab of defeat as keenly as a knife sunken and twisted into the softest, most vulnerable part of his small and shaken frame.Utterly flabbergasted, his despair complete. 

That blasted freighter is going to be the death of him. 

By now, he has deduced that there is a very personal element to Lord Vader’s pursuit of Skywalker.It might be his imagination, but Vader has been equally blindsided by the loss.Devastated enough to retreat without even a single glance or reproachful remark.For a brief moment in time their abject disappointment commensurate.Though perhaps he reads too much into things, makes too much out of nothing.He never knows what Vader is actually thinking.Respectfully he keeps his distance and gives the Sith Lord a wide berth, focused solely on the task of proving to him that the promotion was not a grave mistake.He cannot abide the notion of squandering the opportunity. 

Failure hurts him physically, his hatred of it visceral down to the cellular level, down to the nuclei of his atoms.It is perhaps one of his greatest flaws but also one of his greatest strengths, for the ambition to please his superior is all the more unwavering.He suspects that this is precisely why he and Vader have an understanding of sorts, an uneasy symbiosis.  


But not for long.When Vader recovers from whatever personal loss he has incurred, disappointment will surely be replaced with wrath. 

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps advancing from behind.He glances over his shoulder, narrowing his perpetually tired eyes.Behind him stands a tall man who carries himself by the book yet harbors the ruthlessly mischievous gleam of a born winner.General Veers. The closest thing to his antithesis—always self-assured, pressing forward, carrying the burden of his responsibilities with confidence, taking his wins and losses in stride with seemingly effortless conviction.Vader’s Dagger, he likes to call himself. 

“Firmus.Your shift ended an hour and a half ago.You’ll be of far more use joining us in the officer’s lounge for Sabacc than standing around here doing nothing.” 

“I’m thinking.You ought to try the activity sometime, Maximilian.”Firmus smiles thinly. _Vader’s Dagger._ He had laughed when he first heard the title, unable to help but detect a touch of sexual innuendo.But no—Maximilian had been _serious_.  
  
If Maximilian is the dagger, Firmus is the rusty pocketknife hidden forgotten in Vader’s boot.

Veers sighs and joins Firmus at the viewport, tucking his hands behind his back.“It’s been two days since the _Executor_ lost the _Millennium Falcon_.It’s over until we find another lead.”  
  
“Oh.How unfortunate,” Firmus tosses Maximilian a sour look, replying in a tone caustic enough to burn a hole through durasteel.“I had _no_ idea.”  
  
Veers arches an imperious brow, examining Piett with pinpoint precision.“Yet you’re still moping.Licking the wounds, as it were.”  
  
“I’m not moping,” Firmus stubbornly folds his arms, his face misery personified.“I’m _ruminating_.Which is a perfectly rational course of action, considering the circumstances.”

“It would be rational to calm yourself and put it behind you.Push on to the present.Pick yourself up by the bloody bootstraps.”  
  
Firmus lifts a finger.“Number one—that is a physically impossible act.Number two, our boots don’t _have_ kriffing bootstraps.And number three:This isn’t the appropriate time for calm.This is the time to obsessively speculate.To agonize.Worry.Dither.Have an existential crisis and then repeat the entire process all over again.”  
  
“Is this about Lord Vader?Look—if it was punishment he had in mind for you, he would have enacted it two days ago when the incident occurred.You’re in the clear.” 

“It was that karking droid,” Firmus mutters under his breath, prominent hazel eyes distant and fixed to the stars beyond the viewport.“The astromech must have somehow repaired the sabotaged hyperdrive on that freighter.”  
  
“Right.So you have your theory.Let’s get on to the officer’s lounge.Starck and Gherant are waiting.” 

Piett utters a long-suffering sigh.“Those two.”  


“Indeed,” Veers replies, lifting his well-developed chin high, his posture impeccable.“They’re positively dying to play with you again.Your Sabacc face is practically legendary on this ship, you know that.And besides, isn’t Gherant your man?I thought it was you who had brought him in.”  
  
Firmus rubs his temple in slow circular motions, assessing his options.Maximilian’s persistence irritates him, yet it is a relief to at long last be pursued, to be wanted.Firmus can’t imagine what Max sees in him, unless he happens to have a peculiar fetish for unattractive dour men with haunted eyes and dauntless cynicism.Nevertheless it is an easy friendship—with additional benefits.Although as of late he has been prone to falling asleep in the general’s arms before they have the chance to go at it.And Max, the darling, never complains.Never protests.What does he get out of this arrangement?  
  
“Are you coming or not?”Maximilian gazes at him sternly.  
  
“I’m the fleet admiral now.You can’t treat me like this.”Piett looks sharply up at Veers.“Like you’re the boss of me.Trying to curb all of my unhealthy habits and coping mechanisms.”

“Are you coming or not, _Admiral_ Piett?”

“Stop being nice to me.Makes me want to expel the contents of my stomach.” 

“I’ve never actually seen you eat anything, come to think of it.I always assumed you sustained yourself on caf and smokes.”  
  
“You’re going to _expedite_ the regurgitation process if you don’t shut up.” 

Maximilian brightens, foreseeing a victory at hand.“Charming to the last.Come along, then.” 

Piett graces the general with a reproachful look on the brink of collapse.“Fine.I need to get myself a drink anyway.” 

Satisfied, Veers takes the lead as Piett falls in line beside him without further complaint.Maximillian knows too well how Firmus holds his fears and insecurities close to the chest, guarding them like precious secrets under lock and key.Trouble beneath his quiet exterior.A native Axillan, Firmus is loathe to show even the slightest glimmer of weakness.Born in the crime-ridden ramshackle depths where the sun cannot reach, he had dared to dream of open space and trained extraordinarily hard in the academy in order to do so. Underestimated, small and lacking useful connections, Firmus must prove himself constantly in a world where the odds have been stacked against his success.  
  
How exhausting it must be. 

He has seen it, during those stolen moments tucked away in bed when he observes Firmus sleeping.Has anyone else in existence ever been so tired?The primal instinct is to simply twine fingers through fine, closely cropped blonde hair.Admire how peaceful he looks in repose, his drawn and austere features considerably softened into something elegant and gracile.A burning sense of philia endures.A similar affection Maximilian has for the men in his garrison but magnified tenfold with Firmus. 

An individual he holds in such high regard that he never slackens his pace when they walk together.He wouldn’t dare.For the Admiral may be small, but he will never fail to match the General’s stride. 

The officer’s lounge is a bland, depressing affair.A gray durasteel box without a single viewport.The bar is manned by a protocol droid that should have been replaced three decades prior.Muzak pipes into the room like a poisonous auditory assault.And the decor—well, perhaps its best to not even pay that any mind.Walking into the room is akin to re-entering an abusive relationship.Firmus hates the room and the room thoroughly hates him back, tormenting him with poor design elements and bar stools that are too tall for him to comfortably sit on.  
  
The lounge is empty save for two men who are sitting at a round table cluttered with half drunken bottles of liquor, Sabacc chips, packs of cigarettes, and crumpled wrappers.Starck, the General’s prized protege with few words and fewer brain cells ( A work still in progress, Maximilian insists ).And commander Gherant—whom Firmus actually respects a great deal, though they are not particularly close. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Piett sighs with resignation and takes a seat, picking up one of the cigarette packs.“Trooper Sabacc?”  
  
Gherant nods politely, accustomed to Piett’s distance.“Pleasure as always, Admiral.I say we play the Corellian Spike variant.Agreed?”He looks to his fellow table denizens.  
  
“Agreed.”Veers gathers the card set and begins to shuffle and deal.“Unless you have any qualms, Colonel.”  
  
Starck shakes his head, taking a swig of rum.“Fine by me.” 

The drawing phase begins and Piett spares withering glances at his opponents, eyes heavy-lidded and cigarette held loosely between his gloved fingertips.“I do hope you’re prepared this time, Colonel.Your Sabacc face is about as sound as Ozzel’s naval tactics.”  
  
Gherant snorts under his breath,“Surprise, Pursue, Overwhelm.Flawless.Never fails.”  
  
“Shame on you all,” Maximilian shakes his head.“Easy pickings, slandering a dead man’s name.” 

“On the contrary,” Gherant picks up his cards and examines them.“It’s universally known and accepted that he _was_ pretty awful.Enough time has passed where we can all comfortably _admit_ that fact.”  
  
Mild confusion as Starck furrows his heavy brow.“Hasn’t it been….like….literally _three days_ or something?”  
  
“Yes,” Piett takes a drag from his cigarette, his expression a parody of innocence.“Your point being…?”  


Starck cultivates a crafty little smile.“You seem very confident for someone who basically received a promotion for standing in the right place at the right time.” _Or is otherwise Vader’s bum boy.  
  
_ “It wasn’t easy.Ozzel wouldn’t let go of my uniform as he went down.It had a wrinkle for the rest of the day.Can’t remember the last time I’ve suffered such a scandal.”  


“We’re all shit,” Gherant sighs, tossing his bet into the pot.“Shit people with shit personalities and shit morals.”  
  
Maximilian raises an expectant brow at Gherant. 

“—except Maximilian,” Gherant quickly adds.“Who remains a _beacon_ of exemplary excellence that the rest of us pathetic lifeforms can only hope to aspire to.” 

Just as the Corellian Spike phase is about to begin, Piett’s comlink sounds off, immediately startling and taking the four men out of their game.Straight-faced and alert, Piett reverts to his ever dutiful persona as fleet commander and answers the call.“Yes?”His eyes travel down to the cards between his fingers.If he makes it past the Spike phase without losing his hand, he’ll have a Full Sabacc.Fuck whatever situation has interrupted his streak.Fuck this person on the other end of the comlink.Fuck his _life_.  
  
A panicked voice emanates from the comlink.“There has been—an incident. Something has happened to Lord Vader.And he’s asking for you, Admiral.Only you.Come to the observation suite as soon as you can.”  
  
Piett’s complexion pales by several shades and his lips tighten into a thin line.Veers, Starck and Gherant helplessly watch as if looking at a doomed man. 

“I’ll be there at once,” Firmus swallows. 

“Bring a weapon.” 

And the comlink goes silent.   
  



	2. Chapter 2

Kriffing brilliant. 

That’s all he needs. Alone time with Vader. Though the mere thought of it gives Piett a small thrill of frisson.

Maintaining a brisk pace, he makes his way to the _Executor_ ’s observation suite with a blaster holstered to his hip and a calm countenance. Blood thunders hot in his veins, the admiralty tenuous in his grip. This is his chance to redeem himself, set things right. Lord Vader would expect nothing less of him. He will forge a path to excellence under Vader’s tutelage. Anything less than excellence would be a waste of his time. 

He recalls the recent encounter with Vader in his chamber as they spoke of the lethality of asteroid fields. The back of Vader’s head, a sickly topography of jagged pale and pink faults, like cataclysmic gashes in the earth. He should have averted his eyes but the compulsion to bear witness was overwhelming. Palpable thickness in the air grew hot and heavy and inviting as his empathetic gaze lingered, replete with the confirmation that there really is a _man_ beneath that sinister black shell. 

Not that Piett had been unaware. The Sith Lord has a habit of touching his belt, sometimes even resting his hands along the length of it. The dominant stance has often drawn Piett’s glance to other points of interest—shapely thighs filling the dark armorweave, the suggestion of supple flesh and blood along his torso. In his lowest moments of degeneracy he has entertained fanciful visions unfit for even the most depraved of minds. He wonders what it would be like to try it with him, even just once. To fight through the terror and allow himself to be taken. Taken raw until the din of sensations transmute into the highest pleasure. 

No. He’s not actually thinking about it now. That would be fucking absurd. He’s merely _thinking_ about thinking about it, albeit at the worst possible time. Filthy, degenerate thoughts. Especially in light of whatever trauma Vader has suffered, and the physical agony he endures. 

Piett’s thoughts return to the task at hand. The officer who he had spoken with on the comlink is nowhere in sight. Nor is anyone else for that matter. Why has Vader not called him? Perhaps his comms are damaged?

Tendrils of anxiety linger in the pit of his stomach, ebbing and flowing as he approaches the long empty hallway leading up to the observation suite. He lays his eyes upon a severely damaged door that appears to have been blown apart. When crossing the threshold carefully, he inspects the twisted and jagged durasteel and notes that the code cylinder console has been sabotaged. His fear begins to dissipate, replaced with a surge of protective urgency as he begins to internally compile a list of potential scenarios that could have caused this. 

And all the myriad ways in which he is going to fix the offending situation as soon as humanly possible. 

Piett walks further into the vast and cavernous observation suite, wrinkling his nose with abject disapproval as he observes the mess on the floor. Bits and pieces of furniture that had presumably once been chairs, craters everywhere, chunks of flooring missing as impacted by asteroids. Entire swaths of the walls covered in scorch marks, ripped open and revealing electrical wiring as if an apocalyptic maelstrom had come through. His eyes travel to a gargantuan viewport bearing precarious cracks in the pattern of spiders webs, gossamer threads etched into the glass.

Finally his gaze rests on Lord Vader. The Sith Lord kneels in front of the view port, casting a long shadow across the wreckage on the floor. Piett’s eyes widen slightly as he observes the threadbare tatters of Vader’s armorweave cape, the deep scratches on the back of his helmet. He draws closer, gingerly stepping around piles of scattered debris and lowering himself to his knees so that he may assess Vader’s injuries. 

Half of Lord Vader’s mask has been ripped off, split down the middle.

The Sith Lord does not look up at Piett straightaway. He focuses instead on repairing his damaged right prosthesis, wire and metal knitting themselves together with invisible hands. Piett briefly watches the ominous dance of electrical parts with open wonder and admiration. Vader appears to be putting himself back together with little but the power of his own _mind_. It’s this Force ability that Vader sometimes eludes to. The manipulation of an all-encompassing energy field that binds all things together. Surely it takes some great amount of genius to accomplish such a thing—and Piett feels himself shrink even smaller. To ludicrously minuscule proportion. A trifling ordinary creature in the presence of forces that he has no hope of understanding. 

He can tell that Vader was a handsome man once. Perhaps even beautiful, as indicated by the underlying bone structure. Firmus isn’t sure what exactly he would have expected to see beneath the helmet. But of all things, it wasn’t this. While the lines on his face denote a sublime sort of exhaustion and suffering, there is a furious energy surrounding him. A refusal to succumb to the petty complaints of the flesh. Striking blue eyes and swaths of untainted skin. A well-developed cheek bone, a defined dark brow. He notes that even Vader’s eyelashes are still intact. 

Quite suddenly, Firmus Piett has the sheer audacity to think to himself— _oh, how unfair it is._

There is a thunderous silence as Lord Vader hesitates and finally meets the eyes of his subordinate. A suspiciously knowing gaze that gives Firmus the impression that his thoughts have been unwittingly broadcasted. 

The admiral’s throat has adopted the texture of thick cotton and his pulse quickens, but when he speaks his voice is steady and true, no different than it would have been if he was reading off the preparation instructions from the back of an instant polystarch packet.

“You asked for me, Lord Vader.”

“We have a situation.” Without the deep resonance provided by his vocoder and his breathing apparatus barely working, Vader speaks hardly above a whisper. 

“I gathered.” Firmus focuses for a moment on a small electrical fire that has suddenly sprouted from one of the damaged walls. 

“You may have noticed that there was a YV-666 freighter cleared for entry just several hours ago.”

Firmus lowers his eyes, deep in thought. “Yes…I…saw the log detailing the clearance for a bounty hunter who goes by the name Awarru Tark. I did not think much of it at the time, my lord. You have worked with many like him before.”

“I did not think much of it either.” Vader focuses on his damaged prosthesis, brow furrowed with concentration. “Evidently, a mistake on my part.”

It is no secret between the both of them that Piett has always disapproved of the employment of bounty hunters. His conviction so wholehearted that he has often expressed his disdain of them even within earshot of Vader. There is no place for bounty hunter scum on an illustrious vessel like the _Executor_ , especially when there are Imperial resources better suited to the task of locating individuals in hiding. At the very least there would never be any need to reprimand the ISB for accidentally _disintegrating_ their quarry. One should never trust a bounty hunter, no matter how renown their reputation.

But now is not the time nor place to express vindication. On the contrary, Firmus would give anything for his conviction to be proven wrong. There is no pleasure in having the security of his ship compromised and Lord Vader in the clearly uncomfortable position that he is in.

“Understood, m’lord.” Firmus keeps his head respectfully bowed. 

“He is extremely dangerous, but he is injured. Retreated into the air duct system, the inner bowels of the ship.” Vader closes his eye. “He is on the cusp of death. I can sense it. There are miles and miles of passages. He will not be able to venture very far.”

Firmus lifts his head, calm collected. “My assumption is that you wish to keep this matter quiet.” 

“Yes, Admiral. That is why I forbade the first respondents from triggering the emergency siren. As far as anyone is concerned—this _never_ happened. I’d like you to ensure that this section of the ship is evacuated and sealed off, and that you have an alternative narrative at the ready. I leave the exact details to you.”

There is no undertone of threat beneath Vader’s voice nor a chastising point of the finger for emphasis. _No_ , Firmus thinks to himself. _This is an appeal for help rather than an order_. He is, after all, probably the only individual on the vessel who has actually seen Vader beneath the mask. Perhaps Vader cannot tolerate anyone else witnessing him in such a weakened state. 

Firmus doesn’t know what to do with this revelation. On the one hand, it is gratifying to have gained Lord Vader’s trust to such a degree, even after his failure to apprehend the _Millennium Falcon_. But on the other hand, it’s entirely possible that Vader intends to kill him after this bounty hunter incident is taken care of. Perhaps all along, Lord Vader has favored Firmus for the wrong reasons. Maybe he believes Firmus to be obedient and unresisting, bending to his whims like a reed in the wind. A tool to be tossed aside once its efficacy has been depleted. 

The back of Piett’s throat tightens with emotion. Lord Vader is undoubtedly fearsome, but it is not due to his lightsaber nor his tenacious chokeholds. Truly it is deafening silence and disdain that inspires the deepest terror. Sentiments that eclipse the superficial hazard of a physical death. To look into the philosophical abyss where the most difficult and persistent questions persist, a task best left to restless pondering alone in the darkness. Who is he, actually? And what was it all for? 

He could not have ascended this far only to be exposed as a fraud all along. A pathetic fraud with base desires. 

“Of course,” Piett softly responds, halfway resigned to a fate that may entail his own execution. “This will be cleaned up as quietly as possible. You have my word.”

“Very good. I trust that you'll be quick about it.” Vader looks at Piett with scrutiny as he shifts his bulk and begins to repair his lower limbs. “….and lastly….there is....one other thing I require of you.” 

“…yes, m’lord?”

Vader’s eye drifts down to Firmus’ lower half. “….it appears that you’re kneeling on top of my severed leg.”

Firmus visibly blushes and peers down, locating the mechanical limb amongst the debris on the floor. “….oh…apologies, my lord.” Though the limb happens to be very heavy, he nonetheless picks it up and offers it to Vader. When he began the day’s shift, he never imagined he would be ending it with Vader’s cybernetic limb in his hands, passing it back to the Sith Lord like a kriffing hot potato. There’s no _name_ for a scenario like this. But it’s a story to tell the nonexistent grandchildren, if nothing else. 

Vader exerts his Force power and pulls the leg into his hand, promptly beginning the process of reattaching it. “No apology necessary.” His tone might be a little playful, or maybe a little malevolent. It is very difficult to tell. 

Piett thinks of the late Captain Needa, his heart rate spiking and cheeks still burning. He politely clears his throat. “And…what of this vicious bounty hunter, my lord? Shall I gather a small task force together—“

“No,” Vader quickly interjects, his subdued voice growing louder. “I will destroy him myself.”

“But sir….he is clearly a grave threat and if he gave _you_ a lot of trouble, I cannot imagine what he’ll do to my crew.” Piett’s heart thumps wildly with the desperate hope that he hasn’t grievously miscalculated his words. “Please allow us to take care of it.”

Vader hesitates, his visible eye all but peeling back every single one of Firmus’ layers. For a dreadful stomach-turning moment, Firmus is convinced the end is nigh. This is how he dies. Asserting himself against a temperamental and strangely attractive Sith Lord for the sake of a crew who probably believes that Piett was merely standing in the right place at the right time, unworthy of a true promotion. 

Kneeled before Vader, Firmus waits and thinks of his mother, gently brushing a comforting hand over his temple in the way that only a mother could. 

Instead of lifting a tyrannical fist, Vader gestures casually with a gloved hand as if physically brushing off the Admiral’s words. “I am short of breath and cannot explain the situation in depth, but Awarru Tark has a vendetta against _me_ and no one else on this ship. Your crew will be safe, so long as nobody stupidly wanders into the containment zone.” 

“Understood, m’lord.” Piett nods and primly stands up, brushing off his trousers and praying that his hands do not shake. “We’ll seal off the air ducts and contain the bounty hunter to the area—wherever he is hiding. I’ll update you once I’ve cleared this sector of the ship.” 

He dismisses himself and begins to walk away, but not before Vader quietly calls out to him, speaking to Piett’s turned back. 

“Admiral.” 

Firmus halts, flexing his gloves, cheeks flushed with nerves and excitement and stars know what else. He peers at Vader over his shoulder. The Sith Lord is unreadable but if one looks hard enough, there is an undercurrent of dark amusement. Firmus almost wishes the mask were between them once again. At least with the mask, one can deploy imagination to fill in the blanks. For Vader’s true face is no less enigmatic. 

“Take care that your thoughts do not betray you. Some of them are vociferous.” 

The silence is ear-splitting, soul destroying. Firmus wishes to dissolve into a non-corporeal entity. 

He had not truly accounted for telepathy being one of Lord Vader’s many talents. It is probably not a very good idea to fantasize about intimate moments involving a deadly superior who also happens to be telepathic. Not a good idea to think about the variety of ways in which Vader could potentially fuck him. And the creative logistics surrounding these carnal sessions, and—for fuck’s sake stop _thinking_ about it. Stop _thinking_. 

Is this a flat rejection? An olive branch? An explicit warning? 

….an invitation? 

Firmus marches out of the room before he can find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you for getting this far. I have reservations about my writing but your kind comments have been seeing me through. To clarify, the bounty hunter Awarru Tark is an actual character from Legends content and he was deadly enough to give Vader a run for his credits!

**Author's Note:**

> It begins. Thanks for getting this far <3


End file.
